Chapter 6
The protection charm exploded in Gwen’s hands for the third time that week, showering her mother’s kitchen table in a dusting of crushed herbs and orange wax.
“Well.” She blew a stray piece of rosemary from her nose. “That’s on brand.”
She reached for the dish towel to start cleaning up—and froze.
Cold. Not temperature—something else. A prickle at the base of her skull, like being watched from a direction that didn’t exist.
She straightened slowly, towel forgotten.
Her mother’s kitchen was warm and bright, afternoon light slanting through the windows, the familiar smell of dried herbs and her father’s coffee lingering in the air. Everything exactly as it should be. Nothing out of place.
But the cold stayed. Settled against her spine like a hand.
You’re rattled, she told herself. The spell went wrong. That’s all.
Except—for just a moment, she could have sworn she felt something else beneath the cold. Something that felt almost like... amusement. As if whatever was watching her found her struggles entertaining.
The sensation vanished as quickly as it had come.
Gwen stood very still, heart thudding, waiting for it to return.
Nothing. Just the kitchen. Just the dust motes. Just the distant sound of her father turning newspaper pages in the next room.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Get it together, Bishop. Bad enough your magic’s broken without adding paranoia to the list.
She shook it off and reached for the towel again.
Gwen had come by her parents’ house to borrow supplies from her mother’s pantry. Her own herb stores were running low after forty-two previous attempts.
Unlike most Salem homes that needed repairs, the Bishop residence didn’t call plumbers or electricians.
The Bishop women fixed the kind of problems that didn’t show up in repair manuals: troubled sleep, lingering sadness, the particular loneliness that settled over a house after loss.
They fixed things with carefully chosen herbs, with candles blessed under the right moon, with words spoken at just the right moment.
Gwen was excellent at the words. The herbs she could manage. It was the actual magic part that kept going sideways.
“Still experimenting?” her mother asked, looking up from the bundle of dried rosemary she was tying.
“Still exploding,” Gwen corrected cheerfully. “I’m starting to think Mercy Bishop’s formula assumes a normal-sized magical signature, and mine is—”
“A firehose trying to fill a teacup,” Iris finished, smiling. “Your grandmother used to say the same thing about her mother.”
“Great-great-grandma Mercy had this problem too?”
“She once set fire to the church bell tower trying to do a simple blessing. Took three covens to put it out.” Iris set down her rosemary. “Big magic runs in the Bishop line, sweetheart. It’s not a flaw. It’s just inconvenient when you’re trying to do something small.”
Gwen swept the scattered herbs into a pile, considering this. “So I’m not broken. I’m just... oversized.”
“You’re built for something bigger than household blessings. We’ve always known that.” Iris’s voice was matter-of-fact, not pitying. “The question is what.”
It was a question Gwen had been asking herself for years.
Her tours were wildly successful—she had a six-month waiting list and rave reviews.
Her historical research was impeccable. She’d built a reputation as one of Salem’s most knowledgeable local historians, and she’d done it without relying on the family gift.
The magic was just... a puzzle she hadn’t solved yet. Frustrating, but not devastating.
“Maybe,” said her father from behind his newspaper, “you’re meant for something that hasn’t happened yet.”
Gordon Bishop was the only non-magical person in a family tree heavy with wise women and cunning men. He’d married into the Bishop legacy with good humor and practical support, and thirty years later, he still approached magical mishaps with the same equanimity he brought to clogged gutters.
“That’s very philosophical, Dad.”
“I’m a history teacher. We’re all about things that haven’t happened yet, eventually happening.” He turned a page. “Your grandmother was forty-three before she figured out what her magic was actually for. You’ve got time.”
Before Gwen could respond, the doorbell rang.
“Speaking of things happening,” Iris said, a knowing glint in her eye. “Lilith mentioned you had a particularly attentive guest at her B&B.”
Gwen suddenly found the herb residue on the table fascinating. “He’s a historian. He’s attentive to everything.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It’s professional interest!”
“Of course it is, dear.”
Gordon rose to answer the door, and a moment later, Gwen heard the familiar cadence of Forbes MacLeod’s accent drifting from the front hall.
Her stomach did a complicated flip that she firmly blamed on the residual magic in the air.
“I’m sorry tae bother ye,” he was saying. “Lilith mentioned yer family might have some historical records about Highland immigrant families—”
“Come in, come in,” Gordon’s warm voice interrupted. “Gwen’s in the kitchen. Fair warning: there may have been an incident.”
“An experiment,” Gwen called out. “There was an experiment.”
“That’s what she always says,” Gordon stage-whispered, and Gwen heard Forbes’s low chuckle in response.
A moment later he appeared in the doorway—tall, composed, wearing that cream sweater that made his eyes look storm-dark. He took in the herb-scattered table, the orange wax residue, and Gwen’s slightly disheveled appearance with a single sweep of those observant eyes.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Candle making?”
“Protection charm.” Gwen brushed rosemary off her sleeve with dignity. “It’s a family recipe. Unfortunately, my magic has all the subtlety of a cannon, so small-scale work tends to get... enthusiastic.”
“Enthusiastic.” His lips twitched. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“I could call it explosive, but that sounds more alarming than it actually is.” She gestured at the mess. “No one was harmed. The table will recover. And I’ve learned that Mercy Bishop’s formula probably needs adjusting for magical signatures that don’t fit the standard parameters.”
“A scientific approach to spell failure. I appreciate that.”
“Spell data collection,” Gwen corrected. “Failure implies I expected it to work. I’ve been running variations for two months. This was trial forty-three.”
Forbes looked genuinely interested now—that focused attention she’d noticed on her tour, but sharper. More personal. “Ye’re documenting the results?”
“Of course. How else would I figure out the pattern?” She reached for a notebook on the counter, flipping it open to show neat columns of data.
“Time of day, moon phase, herb ratios, emotional state, ambient temperature. So far, the only consistent variable is that my magic cooperates when I’m not trying to make it do anything specific. ”
“When ye’re relaxed.”
“When I’m not thinking about it at all, really.” She shrugged. “It’s maddening, but it’s useful information. Eventually I’ll figure out what I’m actually supposed to do with all this power, and then presumably the household charms will sort themselves out.”
Iris was watching this exchange with barely concealed delight. “Forbes, would you like some tea? You can tell us about your research while Gwen cleans up her experiment.”
“I’d like that, aye.” But Forbes’s focus stayed on Gwen a moment longer. “Forty-three trials. That’s persistence.”
“That’s stubbornness,” Gwen said. “Ask anyone who knows me. I don’t quit puzzles.”
“I’m beginning tae notice that about ye.”
The warmth in his voice sent heat climbing up her neck. She turned away to hide her reaction, busying herself with the cleanup.
“So,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Highland immigrant families. What specifically are you looking for?”
“Connections between Scottish folk practices and American adaptations. How traditions survived the crossing.” Forbes accepted a cup of tea from Iris with a nod of thanks.
“The MacBeans have been extraordinarily helpful—Alan’s knowledge of clan history is remarkable—but I’m curious about the broader patterns. ”
“You’ve come to the right place.” Gwen swept the last of the scattered herbs into the bin. “The Bishops have been in Salem since before the trials. We’ve got three centuries of records in the attic.”
“Three centuries?”
“My family believes in documentation.” She smiled at Forbes’s expression—the historian’s gleam she recognized from her own mirror. “Would you like to see?”
“Verra much.”